


And This Is How the World Ends

by sassafrasx



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dark, F/F, First Time, Misses Clause Challenge, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:51:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassafrasx/pseuds/sassafrasx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>On her homeworld — her real homeworld, the one that will stay locked and buried inside her chest — there was a saying that the universe will end painted in the scorching blood of the gods, burnt out of existence by the wrath of the small and the oppressed who will have no more of their rule.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>As her tiny body quakes in the ruins of her people, her parents’ twisted bodies behind her and Thanos’ first task ahead, she whispers the words to herself over and over, in a voice so low even the gods cannot hear.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	And This Is How the World Ends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plinys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, plinys! :D
> 
> I had a lot of fun with this fic, as it's completely different from anything I've done before, so while it may not be long, I really do hope you enjoy it! We weren't matched on this fandom, but after watching Guardians of the Galaxy for the first time somewhat recently and seeing your awesome prompts, I just couldn't resist the call of the dark, angsty, pseudo-incest, what can I say? I never have been able to turn down femslash.
> 
> Infinite thanks to B, who responded to my bat signal and was an absolutely wonderful beta!

On her homeworld — her real homeworld, the one that will stay locked and buried inside her chest — there was a saying that the universe will end painted in the scorching blood of the gods, burnt out of existence by the wrath of the small and the oppressed who will have no more of their rule.

As her tiny body quakes in the ruins of her people, her parents’ twisted bodies behind her and Thanos’ first task ahead, she whispers the words to herself over and over, in a voice so low even the gods cannot hear.

—

 _“You are lucky,”_ he says, hand a vise around the back of her neck, _“My chosen daughter. I will make you strong where your people were weak. My Nebula, my weapon, you shall be feared across the galaxy.”_

She thinks, _‘Yes, I shall,’_ and then guts the man in front of her, smiling as she imagines how the blood of this petty, self-made god will stain the very fabric of time itself when she is stronger, older. His weapon and his undoing.

—

Blades fall heavy into her hands, and settle into her bones: a path, an extension, an assurance she is as positive of as her own being.

Just—

They take to her skin as well, Thanos’ will carved into her back whenever she fails his cold-eyed observance; and then deeper, bringing new limbs and ligaments and light, unfamiliar eyes in a new world. Enhanced. Better. _More._

She is more and she isn’t what she ever wanted to be, but this is what she is and someday she’ll have her turn. Someday she won’t bow before the blasphemous, but today is never that day.

And so she waits, a cybernetic catastrophe whittled down to sharp edges and little else.

—

There comes a time when she can’t see, however briefly, hours, minutes, the tick tock of seconds passing grating through her nerves and up her spine, while the whispers of her brothers and sisters lash out again and again.

_“We could slit her throat right now and she wouldn’t even be able to stop us.”_

_“A little bit of poison in the syringe and there’ll be no one but the doctor to blame.”_

_Laughing, remorseless, gloating_ _little shits_ , she’ll slit all their throats herself. She’s only fifteen and she’ll destroy them all, slowly and painfully, the ferocious children of Thanos, desperate to do anything to thin the competition for his malevolent eye.

And then a cold, haughty voice, sharper than the crack of Thanos’ whip on their skin: “Cowards. No better than a pack of rabid dogs _._ Are you all so weak that you don’t think you can beat her once she has a blade in her hand?”

Gamora is seventeen and stays through the long night, practicing her knife throws in the corridor, Nebula’s greatest opponent in this viper’s pit of a life and the only one to sing soft lullabies where no one can hear when she thinks Nebula is sleeping.

—

There are days when Nebula wants nothing more than to claw Gamora apart with her bare hands — to shred and growl and scream.

Gamora is no more than an imposter, as much of a ruthless assassin as any of her brothers and sisters, and she has _no right_ to sing the little she remembers from her childhood, no matter how soft or unheard.

 _There is no comfort in this world_.

But there’s a flicker in her eyes, a spark of something unconquered, that Nebula loves and loathes in equal measure.

—

Thanos has them spar against each other, often and without mercy, bodies coiled tight as they grapple and groan, daggers keen in their hands.

Gamora is the only one who can best her, although Nebula has her own victories as well, for all the good it does in Thanos’ eyes.

Gamora is his favorite, Nebula second.

And so she fights harder, determined to win a place close to his heart. A spot as large and blind as the one he has for his fierce, perfect _Gamora_.

A spot from which she can rip out his innards.

But Gamora never falters, always falls in line, just like Nebula, and they’re both trapped in this game that no one ever wins.

—

Panting, they face off on the razor’s edge of the Cyriscene Cliffs, blue on green, a foul backdrop for an even fouler day.

Nebula is seventeen now and frustration vibrates through her veins. Waiting, patience, has never been one of her virtues — and certainly not one Thanos made any attempt to instill or encourage.

Slash and parry. Slash and parry. Every day it goes on, interminable as her fate.

(Her fate which she is certain of with a sureness that even the gods would envy if they knew, and the viciousness of her vision would give even the most cruel among them pause.)

Gamora’s blade flashes over Nebula’s chest, a hot, sick line of searing heat, and she pushes in, presses her advantage, shoves her leg in between Nebula’s and grabs at her hands, more slashes joining the others all down her arms and her thighs, where Nebula’s own blades have been fought back against herself.

_Pain. Pain. So much pain._

Her leg slides closer, fabric harsh and rough, and Nebula gasps.

_Pain. Pleasure. Pleasure. Pain, pain, pain, pain._

Nebula moans and Gamora’s eyes widen just a fraction.

—

They are sent on a mission together, deep within the cluster, and Gamora rolls close in the night, whispers, “You see it too, don’t you? Thanos must be stopped.”

Nebula grabs her hand where it’s cautiously resting on her stomach, the two of them tucked in impossibly tight so their words can’t echo farther than the barest millimeter, and pushes it down and down until every skin-prick on her body feels like it’s on fire and Gamora is whimpering in her ear, rubbing herself against her rear and biting viciously at Nebula’s neck, and as her body flies, Nebula thinks, _‘Yes, yes, we will paint the world together, bleed every last god dry until nothing else exists,’_ and screams.

—

But Gamora doesn’t wait, doesn’t bide her time. She only wants to spite Thanos and doesn’t see the truth laid out in front of her, the only way forward. She is more interested in salvation, when this world can only end in blood.

If there is nothing else they’ve learned from Thanos, it is that.

—

Gamora is weak.

Gamora doesn’t understand.

_They are nothing more than destruction._


End file.
